


For You

by Tame_my_wild_heart



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Poirot - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-28 03:22:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20771711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tame_my_wild_heart/pseuds/Tame_my_wild_heart
Summary: Someone believes that capital punishment is state-sponsored murder. Revenge is necessary.





	For You

The rain beat down; fat drops of water bouncing off the sodden ground. A rolling crash of thunder broke the silence, an appropriate soundtrack for a November evening. A flash of lightning split the wintry sky, briefly illuminating the hunched figure. His collar turned up against the elements, Albert flicked away the ruined cigarette from between his shaking fingers. He spoke, to no-one in particular, barely able to hear himself. "For you, Father. He'll be sorry. I'll make him be sorry." As he turned away from the unmarked grave, he opened his umbrella, and walked off into the dark. As he waited on the platform of Caledonian Road underground station, he was almost oblivious to the people hurrying past him, equally lost in their own lives. As he was pondering his situation, he felt a shove from behind. Turning round to glare at the disturbance of his thoughts, he came face to face with a large, moustachioed man wearing a grey suit and a pork pie hat. "You getting on, or what?" he inquired good-naturedly. Managing to suppress the flash of recognition, Albert mumbled an apology and entered the train car, found a seat and buried himself behind someone's discarded newspaper. As the train set off through the maze of underground tunnels, Albert stared out into the dark and watched the lights flicking past. The longer he watched, the faster the train moved, and the more he felt the rage building inside him. By the time he had reached his destination and climbed the steps onto the streets of South Kensington, his mind was made up. He was going to make them pay.

***

She frowned impatiently and glanced at her watch, for what felt about the sixteenth time, as the elderly lady in front of her slowly dictated a telegram to the clerk behind the counter. She had a sinking feeling that she was going to be late. Having had a pleasant lunch with a good friend, she suddenly remembered that she had wanted to send a letter to her cousin and having no stamps with her she was forced to join the busy queue at the post office. She had remarked once before on the lack of sense in letting most of the post office staff take their meal break at the same time that people wanted to conduct a little business during their own lunch times. She briefly thought about going back to work; she had stamps in her desk, but it would never do to use the office supplies, even though she knew her employer would never object. Finding it her turn she handed the letter to the pleasantly efficient cashier, along with two-pence for the postage. Business concluded she briskly hurried out into the street, turning in the direction of the office. She collided with a gentleman who was juggling several bags of shopping, as well as the crutch helping him to walk, causing him to drop several items. She stopped to help him gather his fallen belongings, and then continued with her journey. Another glance at her watch forced her to pick up her pace, so she wasn't paying sufficient attention to the pavement. The heel of her shoe slipped into a crack between two paving slabs. Her ankle twisted painfully, and the heel snapped, causing her to lose her footing and pitch forward. As she sat on the ground cursing her bad luck, a rumble of thunder heralded the arrrival of some truly awful weather. As she was pondering how much worse her afternoon could get, a car pulled up beside her. A good-natured face appeared at the open car door. "May I be of assistance?"  
"The heel of this wretched shoe has broken, that's all. I'll be quite alright in a moment, and my office is very close by. Thank you all the same, but I shouldn't like to put you to any trouble."  
"Nonsense, I have all the time in the world. Besides, you said you haven't far to go now. And it's about to start chucking it down any minute. I insist on giving you a lift. I shan’t take no for an answer."  
She thought for a moment. Her throbbing ankle made up her mind for her. "Well, if you're sure I won't be delaying you…" She took his proffered hand and climbed into the car. Sitting beside him, she smiled her thanks. But he wasn't smiling back. She felt a sharp sting in the side of her neck and the world melted away.

***

It was about a quarter to three when I stepped off the lift on the fourth floor of Whitehaven Mansions. Fishing in my sodden overcoat pocket for my keys, I pushed open the front door and entered the flat. I immediately felt uneasy, but was not sure why. Because I heard nothing, my first thought was that I was alone, but Hercule Poirot was sitting at his desk, reading the newspaper, and a steaming cup of tea was waiting on the coffee table. "I saw you from the window, Mon ami. The weather is deplorable, n'est-ce pas?"  
I sank into my favourite armchair and picked up the cup. I was savouring the first mouthful of hot liquid running down my throat when I suddenly realised what had bothered me so much when I arrived. The absence of the perpetual sound of typewriter keys clicking. "I say, Poirot, it's nearly three. I've never known Miss Lemon to be this late back from lunch."  
My friend immediately dropped his paper, looked at his watch and muttered something in his native tongue. He looked into the office of his secretary, poking about on his desk until he found her diary. I was about to admonish him for prying into Miss Lemon's private affairs until he showed me the lunch appointment she had arranged with her friend. It read, in her neat, precise handwriting; Lunch, March 26th, Corner House, 12:30.  
“She probably decided to take shelter somewhere, Lord knows when this ran will let up. I think I’ll go and give her a lift. There aren’t that many places between here and the Corner House where she could wait out this storm.”  
I think I had pulled on my still-wet overcoat and made it downstairs and outside before Poirot had managed to draw breath. I drove furiously to the Corner House, and once there, I ran inside in search of a waitress. In my wallet, tucked away at the back, was one of the pictures I had taken for practice when I had taken up photography as one of my many hobbies. I had discarded most of the pictures, but this one was special. It was of Poirot and Miss Lemon. There was nothing particularly special about the occasion, just an everyday conversation, but the evening light falling across her face gave her a luminous look that took my breath away. I showed the photo to the waitress. She confirmed that Miss Lemon had indeed been there. She was also able to tell me that she had left a little before one-fifteen. I had just stepped back out into the rain when the girl tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around to see what she wanted.  
"I just remembered. As I was clearing the table, she says to her friend; Sorry to dash off but I must get to the post office, I've no stamps and this letter must go today"  
I hastily thanked her for her help and ran back to the car. The post office was less helpful, the clerk serving that lunchtime had left early, but I was assured that if I returned the next morning, then she would be on duty. Feeling deflated at this dead end, I suddenly realised that she would have walked back from the post office and that retracing her steps might tell me something. There were only a couple of places; a bookshop and a gallery where she might have taken shelter. But there was no sign of her in either. She must have taken this way back; in this weather she would never have taken a less direct route. She seemed to have completely vanished. Enquiries in a couple of shops assured me there had been no accidents in the street. Oddly this brought me little comfort. I was brought out of my reverie when I stepped on something. When I bent down for a closer look, I realised what it was. The broken heel of a woman's shoe. I didn’t know how I recognised it, I just did. It was hers. Looking around desperately, I ran my hand through my hair, a sick feeling rising in my stomach. I needed Poirot. If anyone could solve this, he could. I took off running.

***

I rushed along the hallway and skidded to a halt outside the door. There were raised voices inside. I knew that one of them was Poirot, his rapid tone and the way he mixes English and French when he becomes excited is as recognisable to me as my own reflection. The other turned out to be Inspector Japp. I threw open the door and barged inside. Unusually for them, they were having a row. I bit my tongue, preferring to catch up to their thoughts before telling them all I had discovered. Japp was being typically unhelpful. "Poirot, she's a grown woman perfectly able to look after herself. Also, you've got no reason to imagine she's come to harm. I can't investigate a missing person when there's no evidence to say that there is a missing person." I cleared my throat to speak, and my two friends suddenly became aware that I was there.  
"Hastings, where have you been all this time?"  
I hastily filled them in on my efforts, trying to speak calmly.  
"I went to the Corner House. She was there, with her friend, for lunch. The waitress heard her say she needed to go to the Post Office before coming back to work. So I checked there, but the clerk was working a half day, so I agreed to return tomorrow morning to speak with her."  
"Mon ami, you have done admirably, just as I would have done. Your little grey cells are improving."  
"There's more. I walked the journey between the Post Office and here. I was hoping she’d gone in the gallery or the bookshop to wait till the rain stopped, but she never did. Then I found this on the street." I pulled the heel out of my pocket to show him. He visibly paled. "I spoke to a few shopkeepers. There were no accidents of any kind on that street all day. Somehow, within ten minutes walk of here, two hours ago, she vanished, and nobody saw it happen." I decided to sit down before I fell down. Collapsing into the nearest chair, I looked up at them both expectantly. "What now?"  
Japp rubbed his chin in thought. "Well, this broken shoe does change things somewhat. Even if she had stopped at a shoe shop or a cobblers, she'd never be this long, not on office time, and I find hard to believe she wouldn't call if she had been delayed. And she's not going to go far with a broken shoe. Not by choice anyway…" I shuddered at the mental image, unaware that Poirot was watching me intently. "I'll get some men out searching the area, and I'll call the hospitals. Let me know if you hear anything. If you have a picture of her, it'll expedite matters." Wordlessly, I took out my wallet and pulled out the photograph. I handed it to him and turned away from him so he wouldn't see me start to lose what little grip I had on my sanity. I certainly didn't see the look he shared with Poirot.  
The door shut behind him. I hadn't been aware of him leaving. The next thing I knew, Poirot was sitting next to me, holding out a large brandy.  
"Mon Cher ami, I had no idea, the depth of your feelings. After all, she is not the young girl with the auburn hair."  
I stared at him. "Is that what you think of me? You think me so shallow that I can't value loyalty and goodness and honesty as equally as beauty. Maybe when I was younger, but now…I don't pretend to understand why, and I don’t know when it happened, but I fell in love with her. However many girls I meet, yes, they may be beautiful, but there just not…not her." I drained my brandy in one mouthful and dropped the glass, my head dropping into my hands. I felt a comforting hand on my shaking shoulder.  
"And Poirot will bring her home. That is a promise. For you"

***

Felicity forced her eyes open, fighting against the fog clouding her mind. A dull ache pounded away at the back of her head, yet she willed herself to focus on her surroundings. She remembered the man who gave her a lift but very little after that. She tried to work out where she was. Her shoes were gone, so she could feel rough wood beneath her bare feet. The room itself was small and strangely, seemed to be leaning slightly to one side. Getting unsteadily to her feet she gingerly felt her way around the dimly lit room, trying to locate a light switch. Finding nothing, she turned her attention to the small window on the other side of the room. It was filthy, almost black with dirt and grime. She briefly sucked on the cuff of her blouse and scrubbed at the dirty window with the damp fabric. A little of the muck came away, but the outside of the window was dirty also. However, she had managed to make the room a little lighter, enough to locate the door. Pressing her ear against it, she heard nothing. Testing the door, she was unsurprised to find it locked. She tried listening at the window, but all she could hear were birds. Leaning back against the wall, she slid down it and rested her forehead on her knees. Then the door opened. She lifted her head to glare at the man who had seemed so polite that afternoon. "What do you want with me?"  
"I want to teach your boss a little lesson. It's time he knew how it feels when someone takes away someone who belongs to you."  
"What has Mr. Poirot ever done to you?"  
"He murdered my father!" Albert bellowed.  
Miss Lemon couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Nonsense! Mr. Poirot is a good man. There's no way he killed anyone, it's just not possible."  
Albert scoffed at her. "That’s not what I mean, you stupid woman! He had my father executed. Because of your friends, my father was hanged. They took him away from me, and I am going to make them pay."  
Felicity was terrified, but she tried to keep her voice even. "What do you mean?"  
Albert smiled. Grabbing the front of her dress, he dragged her to her feet. He put his face close to hers, so close she could smell the whisky on his breath and see the maniacal look in his eyes. "You are the one person who connects all three of them. So I am going to take you away from them. I am going to kill you."  
In sheer terror and panic, summoning all her strength, she broke free of his grasp, and bolted for the open door. Her injured ankle protested at the sudden movement, but she forced herself onward. Throwing herself up the narrow steps she saw daylight. She was nearly there. Teaching the top, she blindly reached out for whatever was there. A hand grabbed her foot, and she wildly kicked at it, loosening the grip. Falling bodily forwards, she scrambled to her feet and looked around her. The last vestiges of hope within her died. All she could see was water. The tears fell as her legs gave way beneath her and she collapsed on the deck. Behind her, Albert was laughing. "Nobody's going to find you. Nobody will hear you scream. And I promise you, before you die, you will scream." He seized her by the hair and dragged her back to the cabin.

***

I spent a restless night, my dreams plagued by imaginings of all the potential horrors Felicity could be enduring. Four-thirty found me in the living room, where I found Poirot had just brewed a large pot of coffee. Clearly sleep had eluded him too. He handed me a cup. I took it gratefully, the smell of caffeine going someway to soothing my frayed nerves. Before either of us had a chance to speak, if we had been able to, there was a knock at the door. Poirot shot down the hallway, with me close on his heels. There was nobody there, but on the doorstep was a package. As Poirot picked it up, I rushed downstairs. I caught a glimpse of a man’s overcoat as a figure ran out of the building. Chasing after, out on the street, I saw no-one. Whoever he was, he was certainly fit. Mr. Dicker, our doorman, was coming back to his desk. I enquired as to whether anyone had come past.  
"No, Captain. I've sat here for the past hour at least and seen no-one."  
"Are you absolutely sure?" I pressed him. "Somebody left a package outside our door, and then ran out of here not three minutes ago."  
"Not a soul came past here other than yourself, Captain."  
I huffed in annoyance and ran back upstairs. Upon re-entering the flat, I found Poirot seated at his desk. His face was filled with a rage I had never seen before. I pulled the box toward me and removed the lid. Inside was the remains of a ladies' shoe, missing a heel. My hands shaking, I matched it up with the heel I had found in the street. Something fell out of the toe of the shoe. It was a necklace. The chain was broken and there were a few strands of hair caught in the clasp. Obviously it had been wrenched from her neck. My blood boiled at the thought of such a gentle woman being treated so abominably. I turned to Poirot, desperate for some words of comfort. In his hand was a letter. He held it out to me, his hands trembling as I had never seen before. The note was short.  
"Mr. Poirot. The actions of you and your associates got my father hanged. You murdered him; his blood is on your hands. You took him from me, so I have taken someone from you. Her blood will also be on your hands. It is what you deserve.  
Albert Inglethorpe"  
I looked at my friend in horror and disbelief. "Inglethorpe? Inglethorpe had a son? A son who's a psychopath, and now he's got Fe. .Miss Lemon!"  
Poirot half-smiled at my slip of the tongue. "I have telephoned to Chief Inspector Japp. He will come and take charge of this evidence. And you and I shall find out more about this Mr. Inglethorpe."  
"He means it, doesn't he? We proved his father was a murderer, so he means to kill Felicity." I was beyond caring about propriety. I was rapidly losing the will to care about anything.  
"I believe we still have time. The writing of the taunting note, it is a challenge to Poirot. He tries to make fools of us."  
"You mean, if he really meant to do it, he'd just get on with it. Instead he tells us who he is and what he's planning, giving us a chance to stop him"  
Poirot nodded. He always managed to find some way to reassure me.  
"So where do we start?"  
"With a visit to Pentonville. I should be very interested to see if Inglethorpe had any visitors and who picked up his effects."  
"What do you want me to do?"  
"I should like for you to remain here. There are two very important jobs you should do for me. One; wait for Inspector Japp to collect these things, and two; promise to stay here and rest."  
"Pardon?"  
"You can do her no good by exhausting yourself. When she returns she will need your strength, Môn ami."  
Poirot tipped his hat to me in his customary fashion and swept through the door. As the silence fell, so did the tears. A knock at the front door forced me to pull myself together. I answered the knock to Japp, ushered him inside, and disappeared into the kitchen to make some tea. We drank together in silence, the very image of English politeness, were it not for the gloom hanging over us. With a sensitivity that was unfamiliar, and took me slightly aback, Japp got the story out of me. He closed his notebook, picked up the box and prepared to take his leave. As he did so, he placed the photograph I had lent him on the table. "For you, Captain."

***

This time when Felicity woke it was dark. This room was windowless, but she could see moonlight through a crack in the ceiling. He had moved her. Her body ached all over and her head was spinning. The door banged open and there stood Albert, tall and menacing. Lumbering drunkenly toward her, shouting abuse and ranting at her. He became furiously angry, especially when his threats didn't work. She was a realistic woman. She knew she was plain, and that she would probably never marry, at least not for love, so she wasn't afraid when he threatened to disfigure her. Her defiance only served to make him angrier and he threw the vial at her in his rage. She hadn’t seen it in his hand, and fortunately she reacted quickly enough to be able to turn her face in time to keep the acid out of her eyes, but the liquid splashed over her right shoulder and the side of her neck. As the fabric of her blouse was eaten away by the oil of vitriol, he hauled her to her feet. When he started pulling at her clothing, realisation and fear overrode the pain. She could stand the beatings, bruises and broken bones would heal. But not this. Anything but this. She struggled desperately, but his powerful body was more than a match for her bruised limbs. Through the tears, she begged him to stop, but he was relentless. His large hand round her throat, he pawed at her, muttering obscenities at her.  
"You should be grateful, you know, to feel the touch of a man. You never will again now, not when they see what I've left of you. That is, if you live to find out." From nowhere, he produced a knife. Felicity couldn't tear her eyes away from it. Long and thin, impossibly sharp, she watched the light glinting off it as he trailed the point of the blade down her stomach. It sliced through all the layers of her clothing, so close she could feel the cold edge of steel. Closing her eyes, she readied herself for a second invasive assault, but none came. Glancing quickly down, she saw that he was unable to perform. He caught her looking, and lost the very last grasp he had on his temper. "Don't laugh at me, bitch" He raged at her. "How dare you! Don't look at me!" With the howl of a wounded animal, he plunged his knife into her side, a few inches below her left breast. Felicity screamed. Wrenching it out of her, he crawled up her body, smearing her own blood across her bare stomach. "I told you I'd make you scream." His voice developed a smug, gleeful quietness that sent a chill down her spine. She screwed her eyes shut in apprehension of the final, killing blow. There came another searing stab of pain as he sliced into her breast, her underwear shredding and her blood soaking the silk, and leaving the knife lodged in her body. Fighting the rising unconsciousness, she was horrified to see him lower his mouth to her, sucking her blood from her, much as a child would suckle milk. His body became stimulated enough to ravage her body a second time, and she sobbed in pain and humiliation. Suddenly she realised she was praying for death. The thought of Mr. Poirot or the Inspector or the Captain seeing her like this was more than she could bear. What would they think of her? What would become of her? Why would they want her now? She didn’t realise she was externalising her fears.  
Inglethorpe stopped and stared down at her. "Is that what you think? You'd rather die than live knowing they have to live with what they've done. That their actions led to this? They might mourn your death, but they'd move on, but spending the rest of their lives looking at this? And let them be destroyed by their own guilt. Oh, what an idea. Much better."  
Suddenly he was gone, but only as far as the next room. She heard him speaking to the telephone exchange. What little breath she had left caught in her throat.  
"Mr. Poirot? My name is Inglethorpe. I think I have something you want."

***

Having been persuaded to go back to bed, I woke feeling more like myself. I went in search of coffee, but became aware of a raised voice. Poirot was on the telephone, and most unusually for him, was bellowing in French into the receiver. I heard him say Inglethorpe, so I strode over and snatched it from his hand. I yelled down the line. "What have you done with her, you unspeakable swine? Tell me, you unconscionable bastard. Tell me where she is before I find you and remove your head from your shoulders."  
Poirot tore the receiver from my clenched fist and replaced it. "Calm yourself Hastings. The police are tracing the call as we speak. Our job was merely to keep him talking, as you would say. He told us she is in a warehouse by the river, but we needed time to be sure."  
"But why would he just give her up, unless...oh, god no!"  
"Mon pauvre ami, to think how this man is tormenting you. He claims she is still alive. We shall drive to the warehouse and find out. That is if you are up to it? If he has deceived us, the amiable Inspector and I shall leave you with him for five minutes, and say nothing." I looked at Poirot, my eyes wide, presuming him to be joking, yet the tell-tale twinkle in his eye was suspiciously absent. I realised myself that, while he did not give often show proof of his feelings, that they ran just as deep as mine did.  
I nodded my understanding, and we hurried downstairs to my car. I was well aware that I was exceeding the speed limit, but I could think only of getting to her as fast as possible. Poirot appeared to have no intention of telling me to slow down. Fortunately, there was almost no traffic and we covered the eight or so miles to Poplar in less than twenty minutes. We found the warehouse we had been directed to, a disused, derelict building that seemed about to fall down. We split up to find an open door and I drew my revolver, half-hoping that Inglethorpe would show himself and give me an excuse. Putting my shoulder to a door with rusted hinges, it gave way with surprisingly little effort and my forward momentum carried me inside. I was about to yell to Poirot, but my throat closed up in shock. She was lying on the floor, clothes in tatters, and a pool of blood was spreading outwards from her pale body. I screamed for help, and was rewarded with the sound of footsteps and "Mon Dieu!" I barked at him that there were blankets in my car and he obediently set off on his errand. I turned my attention back to the woman in front of me. In the army I had seen injuries more horrific than most can imagine, so I was not squeamish, but this was entirely different. I leant forward and placed my cheek to her mouth and waited. I was rewarded by the feeling of the faintest of breath on my face. I released the breath I didn’t know I was holding, and felt my whole body relax. Slipping off my overcoat, I folded it into a pillow. As gently as possible, I lifted her head, and placed it underneath, relieved to find no damage there. A nasty burn covered her right shoulder and part of her neck, but what scared me most were the stab wounds. Ripping off one shirt sleeve, I wadded it up and pressed it against her side, using my tie to secure it. The other sleeve became a dressing for the other wound. I had seen enough penetrating wounds to know not to try and pull the knife out but to work round it. Suddenly Poirot was beside me with blankets and water. Leaving them and his overcoat with me, he disappeared again, presumably in search of a telephone. I poured some water on the burn and covered it with a piece of her dress, soaked in water. I covered her modesty as best I could with the blankets, and shifted my position to lay her head in my lap. Holding her as tightly as I dared, I mentally shook the red-blooded male inside me that revelled in the first glimpse of her naked form. All I could do was pray that it wouldn't be my last. I pulled her further into my arms and murmured words into her ear that I hoped would comfort and soothe her and keep her going until help arrived.  
I held her in my arms for what felt like forever. In any other situation it would have been my idea of heaven. To hold this beautiful woman in my arms under the stars, or by a babbling brook, I know I would never have been able to take my eyes off her. But here and now, I felt that if I stopped looking at her, she might fade away. I wanted to tell her everything, to pour out my heart to her, in the desperate hope that she could hear me. But I am not naïve. I had taken in every inch of her. I knew what Inglethorpe had done to her. I had met other women, and even some men, who had suffered a similar fate. There was a good chance she would never feel able to let me near her, even to hold her hand. My heart hurt at the thought of her being in such pain, being so sad. She deserved so much better. She deserved to be happy and I would do anything to be the man who made her so.  
Suddenly there was a flurry of movement around me, and she was pulled from my protective embrace. I shouted at them not to pull out the knife, almost hysterically, desperate to keep hold of her. I found that the strong hands of Japp were holding me back, and Poirot was beside me with his unapologetically European way of consoling a good friend. I found I was too tired to fight him, and I allowed him to put his coat over my shoulders and guide me out to where the ambulance was waiting. I climbed into it and sat clutching Felicity's hand, afraid to let go for fear this was a dream and that she might disappear if I awoke.  
By the time Poirot and Japp caught up to me, they found me on a bench outside the hospital. Poirot offered me a cigarette, and Japp held out a hip flask. I accepted them both gratefully. I answered the question they were both too afraid to ask. "She's in surgery. The knife, it hit…her lung collapsed, I don't know."  
Japp shook his head and went off in search of information, no doubt with the aid of his warrant card. I looked sadly at my best friend.  
"I'm a fool."  
"Mais pourquoi?"  
"Because I'm in love with her, and I never told her. And now it's too late. I've blown it."  
"It is never too late"  
"Yes it is. You've met rape victims, we both have. If she survives the surgery, she'll never trust another man again. She'll be terrified."  
"Hastings, you do her a disservice. She is more robust than you imagine. You cannot pretend to know how she thinks."  
"But…"  
"No. Tell her the truth and let her decide for herself. Let her behaviour be your guide. If she feels the same, you will make each other happy. If she cannot, if you love her, you will simply be her friend."  
"I suppose you're right. Thanks, old boy."  
"Any time, my friend. For you."

***

I opened the door as quietly as I could manage. I was desperate to see for myself that she was alive, but terrified that she wouldn't want me there. When Japp had tracked down the doctor, who told us she had survived the surgery, I believe I would've fainted clean away were it not for Poirot's reassuring grip on my arm.  
I slipped inside the room and took the chair beside her bed. She looked so small and fragile, her skin almost as pale as the linen which covered her battered body. Her hair, free from her usual rather severe style, lay loose on the pillow. I brushed a wayward strand off her forehead. The burns on her shoulder and neck looked angry against her alabaster skin. When we heard the doctor's report we were shocked and appalled. Poirot looked angrier than I had ever seen him, and even Japp proved that his years in the police force had not made him immune to such matters. They had gone to Scotland Yard to continue the search for Inglethorpe. It was better that they find him before I did.  
I watched her sleep. I longed to open my heart to her, but the fear of rejection was more than I could bear. Even before all of this, I could not have spoken out. But everything was different now. I had to tell her. She deserved to know that it didn't matter, that she was still desirable. I steeled my nerve, grateful at least that she was in no position to run away from me.  
"I'm so sorry, Miss Lemon. I'm sorry that you had to go through all that. I hate that our investigations have put you in harm’s way. Oh hell, I can't keep calling you Miss Lemon, or rather, I don't want to. I want to call you Felicity. Dammit all, I want to call you mine. I've wanted to call you mine for so long I can hardly remember wanting anything else. When I saw you like that..."  
Suddenly, she was wide awake. Her eyes full of terror and unshed tears. "You saw me? You know? You know what he did." She scooted backwards in the bed, trying to put as much distance between us as she could. I reached for her, but she shrank away from me.  
"Why are you here? What do you think I can give you now? Look at me. What am I fit for? What has he left me fit for? Just leave; it's what you really want. Just leave me alone." Her face dropped into her hands and her tears finally fell. Seeing this woman, normally so together, crying like a child damn near broke my heart. Gently I pulled her hands away and raised her chin, making her look at me.  
"I'm going nowhere. I'm going to help you get over this. It will be okay."  
"Get over this? How do I get over this? How do I get over knowing that my only time with a man was not of my choice? Can you erase it? Can you take the memory away? The memory of his face, of his voice, his smell? You can't. So why are you here? What use are you to me? What use am I to you? It would be better if he'd killed me." She tried to push me away but I wasn't about to let go. Those last few words clawed at me with icy fingers, filling me with a mixture of rage and pain and fear. Holding her upper arms as firmly as I dared, I waited while her flailing fists beat at my chest. Energy and anger spent, she collapsed in my arms. I wrapped her in my embrace, tucking her head under my chin and waved away the concerned nurse who had come to investigate the cries of her patient. Once the tears had subsided, Felicity looked up at me. "Did you mean it?"  
"Every word. And I'll wait till you're ready, as long as it takes..." I was cut off by her lips on mine. I could sense her longing; even in this state the taste of her was intoxicating. But I knew this was wrong, as if she felt she had to prove something to me. I hoped she was just trying to prove it to herself. It took all my will power not to melt into her kiss and show her just how much I craved her and hang the consequences. But she was vulnerable and in pain, and in hospital so I gently pulled away from her, my body feeling bereft at the loss of her touch. She looked hurt, rejected and I was quick to reassure her that I thought we should wait until she was stronger.  
"I promise you, when you're better, I will show you exactly how a man should make a woman feel, if you want me to" I felt a pleasurable shiver at the thought of finally being able to touch the woman I had desired for so long. I helped her to lie back under the covers and tucked them securely around her, placing a gentle yet passionate kiss on her temple. "Sleep now. I'll be right here waiting for you."

Of course Poirot insisted on Felicity staying with us. Until Inglethorpe was apprehended, he wasn't going to let her out of his sight. She put up a fight of course, but between us we convinced her that she was better off not being on her own. We both knew that she was bound to have nightmares. For two weeks we listened as she cried each night, reliving the horror she had endured. Every day we said nothing, equally unsure how to begin. The desperate attempts to be cheerful were a strain on all of us, and we felt that we had not seen the worst of it. The world outside was preparing for Christmas, but we seemed unable to join in London’s merriment. I hated the way she seemed to try to stay awake, and the fear in her eyes when she knew she had to go to bed. I knew I could not listen to her crying much longer. Eventually, the breaking point came. A scream of terror from her room saw me hammering on the door. I couldn’t let her suffer any longer. Getting no answer I opened it and Felicity, in a tangle of sheets, fighting a dream fight against an invisible assailant. Seizing her wrists, I spoke in quiet, soothing tones, about nothing in particular. Gradually she settled and her breathing evened out. I was able to wake her and she threw herself against me and wept. Through the tears and garbled sentences, I was only able to understand six words. "Please, do not leave me alone." I quirked an eyebrow at Poirot. He nodded at me and withdrew, closing the door behind him. I knew this meant that he trusted and expected me to behave as a gentleman should, and I could never betray that trust, however tempted I might be. I settled on top of the blankets, assuming that Felicity might feel safer with some sort of barrier between us. A change in her breathing told me that Felicity had fallen asleep, and I felt a peace that was unfamiliar to me. I gazed down at her, elegant even in sleep. She lay on her side. I had one arm laid across her hip; the other trapped beneath her and our hands were entwined. She snuggled closer, pulling my arms tighter around her, as you would pull a coat tighter around yourself. Suddenly I was uncertain what to do. My hand had brushed against her breast. Her hold on me was too tight for me to escape. I thought of Poirot a few metres away, how he would disapprove! I gently tried to slide my arm out from under her. Her eyes opened. "You said you wouldn't leave me." Her hushed tones were accusing and edged with fear. I brushed my fingertips down her cheek.  
"I should go. You need to rest, and to be honest, the longer I stay here the harder it becomes for me to remain a gentleman." I would not take advantage of her.  
"You said you weren't put off by this" she gestured at the burn on her shoulder. "You said you loved me anyway. But you can barely bring yourself to touch me." She sounded so broken and rejected that I couldn’t bear it. "I wish he'd killed me. He said no-one would want me now." I cupped her face with my hands and gently made her look at me. "Don't ever say that. Please, don't even think it. Poirot would be lost without you. And as for me, I don't know what I would've done if I lost you. When we found you in that warehouse, when we thought we were too late, I never want to feel that again. I'd rather die myself than lose you." I looked into her eyes, hoping she saw the deep sincerity in mine. "And no amount of burns or scars can ever stop me believing that I'm in love with the most beautiful woman in the world." "But you were leaving."   
"I was trying not to scare you. Your only experience with a man was one you did not ask for. I didn't want you to think I couldn't wait until you were sure."  
"What if I am sure? I never realised I cared about whether a man could be attracted to me before now. I think I need to know. I have never been so in need of validation, partly as a person, but especially as a woman." She reached for me. "I trust you enough to know you'll stop if I need you to."  
“This is a bad idea. You’re hurt, and not just physically. I’m scared I’ll make it worse. I’d never forgive myself if I did you any harm.” Nor, I suspected, would Poirot.  
“I trust you. Right now I think you’re the only person I do trust.”  
The last piece of my resolve disintegrated, and I took her in my arms. Bending my head to kiss her, I tried to fill it with tenderness and love. Instead it was passionate and heated. I ran my hand through her soft hair and we collapsed on the bed. When it was over, we lay under the sheets breathing heavily. We had fit together so perfectly it was though she had been made just for me.

***

When I awoke next morning I was alone. In a panic I rushed into the living room. Felicity came in from the kitchen with a tray of breakfast things. She moved stiffly, clearly her injuries were still the cause of some pain. I was concerned, but knew better than to try and stop her. I knew she felt like she needed to keep busy. To not feel like a victim. At the same time, Poirot appeared. He smiled delightedly at us. "Good morning, mes amis. I trust you both are well? Miss Lemon, I am pleased to see you up and about."  
"I made breakfast, Mr. Poirot. I wanted to thank you both for your kindness; I don’t know how I would be managing without you.”  
“How are you feeling?”  
She froze in the midst of setting out cups and saucers, not quite able to meet his eyes. “Better. I think I’ll get there.” She smiled slightly. “At least I’ve stopped jumping at shadows.”  
A cheerful knock sent Felicity off to answer it. I tried not to watch as she moved slowly down the hallway. I tried not to worry when I saw how hesitantly she opened the door only just enough to see who was there. Even from behind I could tell how relieved she was when she saw it was friend not foe. In her absence, Poirot raised an eyebrow at me, and I attempted to maintain a stoic impression. Inspector Japp joined us for breakfast and we could tell he had some news he was struggling to keep to himself.  
"Japp, for heaven's sake, spit it out before you explode."  
"We got 'im." Over coffee, he got the story told. Japp had used every man at his disposal. It was gratifying to know just how many man-hours had gone into the operation and the dedication of those involved. Eventually, the net had pulled tight and Inglethorpe had realised the game was up. He had taken a few pot shots at the constables, in all likelihood because he knew what the response would be. But at least it was over. Felicity and I exchanged glances. She nodded at me. It was what we agreed last night. I knew that she had a long road ahead in terms of her recovery, it would be some time before she felt completely safe, especially out alone. But where she was concerned, I had infinite patience and I would not leave her to make it through alone. I squeezed her hand under the table. She put down her cup.  
"Mr. Poirot, could I ask you for a favour? You too inspector?" They glanced at each other warily and I struggled not to laugh at their predicament.  
"I doubt we can shield you entirely from the press, but be reassured, ma petite, we will do all we can."  
"Oh, that's not it. I don't want to think about that just now. I wanted to ask...Arthur and I, we need a best man and a father of the bride, if you're both willing."  
Japp stared at us in shock, quite unable to speak. A delighted smile spread across Poirot's face and he leapt to his feet, embracing us in a fierce hug and shaking my hand. He congratulated us in his usual way, a mixture of French and English and declaring that he determined to take us all out for a celebratory lunch. It was a relief to finally hear the flat filled with joy, and I marvelled at just how far one's loved ones will go...for you.


End file.
